Mansplaining ostriches and stuff

I was listening to my niece's two sons talking about their holiday in South Africa. They saw ostriches on the beach and elephants in the wild and only two penguins on Boulders Beach. But I thought, should I tell them that an ostrich is the fastest animal on two legs? Or that it only has two toes? Nope, I restrained my 'know it all' gene and listened. Listening is an underrated skill. Usually when we have a conversation, half our brain is already thinking of how to reply. Maybe that is what people mean when they say I have reached my golden years? Has a nugget of golden intelligence grown with the changing of my hair to silver? Have I finally learned to shut my mouth and open my ears? I'm still wondering how this time of my life can be considered golden. I spoke to a brother-in-law this week about how he is coping with the loneliness of life after the death of his spouse. He encouraged me to go on dates as he swears that it's the way to retain your energy for life. I don't know about that so much. I have energy, sometimes. I have life. Maybe not at the same moment in time, but often. But I also have a lack of compromise as to my lifestyle. Who knows if a new man in my life would expect me to get up before my normal waking time of the crack of eight? There are so many other accommodations I have developed over the years to function. And cleaning the house? Oh my goodness me, that would be a challenge. I am seriously averse to using the vacuum cleaner et al. And cooking? Would he expect me to cater to his culinary needs? Yes, yes, I did accommodate my husband's love of melons and cucumbers when even the smell of them gave me a headache. But learning about someone new's quirks and foibles? Nope, my golden years are not built for that. I received a letter from another brother-in-law this week with six pages of mansplaining and irritating rhetoric about how marvelous he is and how inferior other people are in his eyes. The fact that he is sitting in prison for a stupid decision he made, has not encouraged any humility at all. In fact hubris is his main characteristic and a definite hint of narcissism. Some people would say that I should keep my BIL's incarceration for drug smuggling a secret, but nah, nope, and why? Secrets are kept so that innocent people do not get hurt but also to allow the guilty to continue thinking they have escaped detection. I believe that secrets always come out and it's better to control the narrative instead of allowing others to tell the story. I watched the movie 'Scoop' this week about Geoffrey Epstein and Prince Andrew. At the end of the BBC interview Prince Andrew actually thought he had done a great job of repairing his reputation. Mmm, nope. In fact it showed him as being out of touch with how the world viewed the fate of those young girls. And compassion or empathy, well, I didn't see any. Which was quite sad because in my youth we thought Prince Andrew was a swashbuckling young prince who had the world at his feet. Turns out those feet were flawed and made of clay.

Yesterday my daughter cleaned out my freezer. Yes, there was food in there that was way past its use by date. There were liquids in containers that neither one of us could identify and there was the plethora of things I had frozen in the vain hope that someday we would develop a love of broccolini or weird beets. She has discovered that I have a problem with meals that I think I might one day enjoy, but never do. That old chestnut of putting leftovers in the fridge until they grow fur, instead of throwing it out straight away, well that is me to a T. My fridge now looks quite good after an audit last week. Who knows what the future holds for me. Will I finally throw out those clothes that I fitted into in my 20's? That shirt that I think is pretty, but displays way too much of my 'inflated assets'. Not that my assets are artificially inflated, but those sneaky chocolate bars have worked their wicked way with my body. People sometimes ask me if I have thought of losing weight. (They ask at the peril of their lives, let me just say,) It's not a subject I encourage. But I know full well how to lose those extra rolls of squidgy stuff around my waist. It's to give up those little treats. But would life be worth living? Life can be challenging at times and I don't drink alcohol or do drugs, so my coping mechanism is stuff that is sometimes called guilty pleasures. My BIL behind bars believes that we should fit a certain size to be of value. Mmm, nope. Anyhow, I was talking about throwing out clothes, not ranting about body shaming. This week I have been sewing an old sari into a usable skirt. One with pockets and easy side opening. But it required an iron to get the seams flat. And I had to scratch around to find said iron. It must be at least 3 years since I last used it. I looked in cupboards, under beds and on top of things until I gave up and went to the kitchen for a cup of something hot, and yes, there the iron was residing next to the electric jug. Not that I have used the jug in the last 3 years either. My husband once took the jug down and filled it with water for some project, and screamed in horror to see all the dead ants and a few cockroaches that were gellified in the bottom. He threw that jug out of course. But that just tells you that it is not something that I use often. My husband's cousin once house sat for us and when we got home, he suggested we buy a better jug as he had been forced to collect his jug from his home for the duration of his stay. Did we? No. But doing the sewing stuff has forced me to take stock of my wardrobe. And needless to say, the op shop will be receiving a bumper crop of plus sized clothing in the near future. But those discarded clothes will be replaced with ones that I enjoy wearing, so it's a win, win situation.

I have been taking 'magic mushrooms'. No, not really but almost.  I have been taking a mushroom supplement to stop my mind from keeping me awake all night worrying about stupid stuff. As you might have realised over the years of my blog, my mind loves to wander and wonder. But over Easter I was kept awake by something totally different. Dead rat smell. I had smelt it a few days prior to Easter and done the usual sweeping in dark corners, but the smell persisted. Initially I thought it was left over from a hunting spree that my cats had been on where they had presented me with large rats. But the smell built until it was overpowering. I asked my children to check under cupboards for me and they assured me there was nothing to find. But on Saturday morning, with guests in the house that were also being affected by the aroma, I got down on my hands and knees and searched for myself. And let me just assure you that once I am on my knees it takes a crane and an even larger lever to get me back upright. So there I am in my old nightie, butt in the air sniffing and following my nose and the noxious smell. Oh yes, there it was. Rat corpse in its full glory of guts and gore. Thank goodness no one was present to video the whole episode as I grabbed the edge of the bath, and with the rat in my other hand, grunting and gasping as I forced my knees to straighten, all while one arm fully extended. You really do not understand your own core strength until you are forced to the limit of your endurance. I threw the smelly rat into our neighbour's yard. Oh stop judging me, the house has no tenants at the moment and no one will notice the odours for a while. Previously when I have thrown dead rodents into the garden, my daughter's cats have 'hunted' the dead critters and taken them inside her flat, and I didn't think she would appreciate the smell or the 'gift' of eau du Rattatiole. My grandmother used to spray Eau Du Cologne to get rid of smells, but seriously this required much, much more. I switched on the extractor fan, lit some incense sticks and opened doors and yay, by the end of the day, I could climb into bed and enjoy a smell free sleep.  Whoever said you can't smell while you are asleep, yup, they have obviously never been assailed by the perfume of what had resided, uninvited, in my bathroom. 

Genealogy is one of my pleasures in life. If I can help others with their obscure family challenges, then I am a happy camper. At times I am 'haunted' by the people I'm researching. And two weeks ago a man kept on 'visiting' me at odd moments. I would be settling down to read a book or get ready to go shopping and this man would pop into my head and I would gravitate to my computer and start a 'short' search that often took up a few hours of my time. When I visited the lady who's family tree he was an obscure branch of, she said she had never heard of him. After I told her of my urging to fill in his parents, wife and children before he would allow me to rest, she shrugged and said "Why?" Well, heck, I don't know but it's not the first time this has happened to me. My great grandmother could speak to ghosts and my mother too, but for me, I don't have the gift. The closest I get is to dream of things taking place somewhere else in the world, usually a few days prior to them happening. My BIL asked if my husband's spirit had ever visited me and I said nope. I don't feel him around me at all. He laughed and said that he too had expected a ghostly visit from his wife. She had been very spiritual and while she lay dying, they had spoken of her returning to tell him what life on the other side of the veil of death would be like, but she has never returned. I have concluded that she is sitting with my husband and watching us scrambling through life with all its challenges and laughing at us. Or at least smiling at us with sympathy. I heard that a piano teacher was saying that the Lord had told her that in the last days of the world, that we would need more piano players. I fully agree. We need more music, more laughter, more smiles, less anger, less hate and much more harmony. I will try and keep those ideas of joy and love as I struggle to learn how to do Tunisian crocheting for my new grandbaby's blanket that I am making. Great aunt Fanny would be pleased to see me using my crochet skill that she taught me when I was 6 years old. Yup, I can see her sitting next to Lynette and Barry and smiling as I untangle yet another failed attempt. But I shall persevere. Surely it has to get easier? Although Auntie Fanny didn't teach me Tunisian crocheting ,... that was a hell that I inflicted on myself in a moment of madness. My grandbaby is worth all the extra gray in my hair as I remember that it is done with love.